


Garden Negotiation

by TricksterMel



Category: One Piece
Genre: M/M, marco cant take compliments, or affection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:09:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22764517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TricksterMel/pseuds/TricksterMel
Summary: Shanks considers himself helpful
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco
Comments: 3
Kudos: 58





	Garden Negotiation

Business was to be conducted under a blooming rose awning. Honestly he had little real choice in the matter, like many things these days. Although he had wrestled back a portion of the reins by suggesting this corner of his small park, it was Shanks who insisted on galavanting his way into Marco’s carefully tended gardens with little regard for any form of meditation. “These are lovely peonies! And those sunflowers! Didn’t take you much for a green thumb. Suppose your whole thing _is_ rejuvenation...”

“They’re marigolds.” Marco wondered idly if there was a way to turn your own ears off without resorting to needlework. It was a common muse he’d yet to tackle.

Shanks trotted easily between pond and flora, sampling each with an eager pluck or experimental dip. Marco’s carefully marbled expression didn’t break to snort at the childish actions- he highly doubted Roger had ever enforced any sort of ‘ _look don’t touch_ ’ policy. Instead he took his tea straight to the small birchwood table, with its chairs too delicate for a pirate’s touch (ex-pirate now, wasn’t he? That half of his life didn’t carry much weight these days. His shredded title wouldn’t break more than a twig at this point). Watched through habit-lidded eyes as his rival pranced in a space that he had not an ounce of ownership over, but which he paraded around like he had grown it himself. Effortless in everything he did. Dirt would only make him more rugged, the sight of him pulling weeds would be somehow twisted into a fairytale illustration rather than an enforced, toiling effort towards recovery-

“I’ve always admired your penchant for analytics, bluebird. Pretty sure I can see the steam billowing from your ears.” Shanks less sat, more sprawled down on the bench across from him. Legs spread, single arm akimbo over the stone back. Wide open, uncaring that it would be so easy- Shanks jerked forward to snatch one of the hard sprinkled sugar cookies from their porcelain dish, caring little about crumbs or swallowing as he spoke. Marco’s eye twitched despite careful instruction. “Ah. Perhaps it’s the kettle.”

“Pot.” Marco deadpanned immediately. “Get on with it.You aren’t here for shits and giggles.”

Shanks tried quite hard to storm his expression, but Marco was trained enough to see the smirk tickling the corner of his lips. Left side particularly, he always told with his left. Used to be easier to tell, when he still had a hand there to slip into his pocket. It was easy to fall into their routine of glare and take-- Marco never lost these inconsequential battles, and he wouldn't break that petty streak today. A grin finally broke Shanks cloudy attempt at serious dealings. “Economical too! Alright, if you won’t let me have the honor of buttering you up, let's trade stones.”

Storm over a dark sea to sunshine to sharp stones reaching to wreck his body under deceivingly still waves. The grin didn’t leave, but Marco was more comfortable with this shade of the familiar guise. No warmth in this red beyond that of prey, panic-pulsing blood. A hunter was easier to haggle with than a merchant. “Phoenix, I want half your territory.”

If Red Hair were half the man he was, a fine painting of blisters would join his scars- and, Marco hoped- make fine work ruining his roguish face. As it was, Shanks merely tilted his head to avoid the boiling water. “That was perfectly good oolong-”

“The kettle won't miss. You’re not welcome on Sph-”

“Sit down Marco.” Soaring too high in his rage, wings melted with no time to barrier against the Emperor's cool demand. Marco fell back into his carved garden seat with all the despair of Icarus. Shanks merely pulled him closer by a clean yank, ankle tucked around the leg in anticipation of Marco’s protests. The table cut against his ribs, nearly convincing as an iron maiden for all its domesticity. Sun through the rose bough only made Red Hair’s steady gaze burn brighter in its earnesty. “In the 30 years I’ve known you Marco, you’ve never been alone. You aren’t made for it.”

The stubborn clench of Marco’s jaw was painful. He was struggling to look directly at the solar flare of Red Hair’s gaze. Shanks didn’t reach to touch, didn’t press more than ankle to ankle, but Marco could-would- burn with his own indignity. He was fine without Shank’s warmth, thank you.

“Let me take care of you.”

Marco blinked away.


End file.
